


New Tales from the Old Forest

by effulgentcolors



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Famous Killian, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Writer Killian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:40:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9727298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/effulgentcolors/pseuds/effulgentcolors
Summary: This started as a OS from my 'Tis The Season collection but thanks to your enthusiasm seems to now be a verse in its own right.Based on: Character A’s little child wants to meet their favorite celebrity/writer/person for Christmas. Character B is said “Christmas present”.





	1. Chapter 1

At age 28 Emma Swan knows she hasn’t done many things right in her life but her son is definitely in the ‘knocked it out of the part’ category.

She is not sure how much credit she should be given though. Emma thinks she has raised Henry well, better than she expected, certainly better than she thought she would back when doubting whether she should do it at all. But there’s only so much positivity and imagination Emma could install into someone. And her kid has definitely surpassed her capacity for both.

And like the bright and joyful child that he is, Henry is absolutely obsessed with Christmas.

A part of Emma dreads every 1st of December just because she is sure one morning she’ll wake up and find herself on the North Pole. So far she simply finds herself in an apartment awash in the sounds of Christmas’s best hits. By the end of the first week of that long-awaited month she lives among dwarves of all materials and sizes, has gingerbread men and candy canes falling on her every time she reaches for the cinnamon and is constantly illuminated in some combination of red, green and gold.

How Henry developed such an affinity for the holiday with Emma’s not-quite-a-Grinch-but-definite-Scroogy-undertones attitude, she will never know. Mostly she likes to blame it on kindergarten and school teachers like Miss Blanchard and Miss French. If she didn’t know better, she’d think them related to Santa himself.

But Henry sweeps her along in his excitement like he always does and she has every bit of space on the surface of their fridge covered in drawings of the two of them building snowmen, hanging lights, reading by an imaginable fireplace (that she has promised herself to look for when their lease is up), decorating the Christmas tree, baking cookies and every other cliché in the holiday book.

All of that should explain why she is willing to do pretty much anything to make sure Henry has whatever his pure, believing, little heart wants for Christmas.

Of course, there are some things her son has without a doubt inherited from her. Like the ability to make Emma’s life as difficult as possible.

While every kid and their awesome aunts and uncles are obsessed with superheroes and everything to do with them, racing each other to buy comics, rubber hammers and plastic light-sabers, ordering Marvel DVDs and booking cinema tickets months in advance, Emma Swan is standing in front of a shelf with heavy, leather-bound, luxurious editions of _New Tales From the Old Forest_ and hoping beyond hope that Killian fucking Jones gets a new book out before Christmas starts really breathing down her neck.

///

“Mom! Mom, you won’t believe it!”

Henry climbs onto one of the bar stools at their kitchen counter with a little difficulty and Emma glances at him with a wary smile as she stirs her bolognese sauce.

“Don’t rock on the chair, Henry.”

“The chair is rocking itself. This is so big, mom!”

“Is it now?” Emma reaches for the oregano and listens carefully, not giving anything away until she has heard all the details.

Knowing her son, kind soul extraordinaire, she might accidentally adopt a crocodile, if she isn’t careful.

“Yes! I know what I want for Christmas!”

Now Emma’s ears really perk up and she turns down the heat on the stove so she can turn around, leaning one hip on the counter and giving the boy her full attention.

“Has Mr Jones given Cinderella a shotgun in this one?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow.

“Mom,” Henry groans in undisguised embarrassment, dropping his forehead on the counter like the overdramatic little diva he is. “Cinderella already got a shotgun in the sixth book. Plus, the new book doesn’t come out until March.”

“Then what’s the big news?”

“He’s coming here! He’s gonna be signing in New York on the 21st!”

Henry’s whole face is alight with joy and Emma feels both happiness at his enthusiasm and an uneasy sense of apprehension settle in her stomach.

She knows how much Henry loves these books, knows that Killian Jones is little less than a god in the eyes of her ten-year-old son. She also knows that idealizing someone never ends well. Unless they are never given the chance to disappoint you. So Emma was entirely too content with her son having a male role model that will never get to let him down, hurt him or disillusion him in any way.

It seems she was wrong.

“Alright. But, Henry, it might be a private event or-“

“It’s not! It’s in the bookstore right across from Granny’s and it’s totally free and you don’t even have to have a book but, of course, we do.”

“Of course.”

Having “a book” is a slight understatement. They have all six of Killian Jones’ books. In every one of the three editions they’ve come out in.

“Just let me look into it first, ok?”

“Mom,” Henry jumps from the chair and comes to stand before her so the puppy eyes are in full effect when he looks up at her. “This is _all_ I want for Christmas.”

It’s settled. If Killian Jones disappoints her kid, she’s going to kill him.

///

That night she sits down to investigate Killian Jones with all the skill and more distrust than she employs for the worst of her perps. To say she is in for a surprise is another understatement. Killian Jones… is not what Emma was expecting from an author of fairytales, even unconventional ones.

Born in Ireland. Orphaned at 8 (she pictures Henry’s puppy dog eyes earlier and something inside her squeezes in the most painful of ways). Tossed from group home to group home along with his brother and “returned” within days whenever someone tried to separate them (she pictures herself this time, remembers the feeling of floating without a compass or any land in sight, pulled and pushed by forces beyond your control). Separated from his brother regardless when the latter came of age. Got out of the system at 14 when said brother was finally declared fit to be his guardian. Worked (not entirely legally) at the docks for three years. Supposedly started working on the first book of _New Tales from the Old Forest_ during that time _._  Joined the Royal Navy along with his brother at 18. Lost brother in the Navy (she feels her stomach drop and takes a deeper gulp of hot chocolate, considers bringing out something stronger). Moved to America, Maine. Worked at the Storybrooke library for two years while working on _NTOF_. Published his first short story in a local newspaper at 22. Moved to New York at 23. Got engaged to one Milah Sawyer. Published his first _NTOF_ book in 2010 at 25. Lost fiancé and left hand to a drunk driver two weeks after becoming New York Time’s best-selling author. Dropped off the face off the earth (even Emma’s research skills turn out to have their limits). Resurfaced a year later in Michigan. Worked at the docks in Michigan for a year and a half, rumoured drinking problems. Shook the literary circles with the second and third _NTOF_ books in 2013 (critics described them as ‘two shades too dark’, Emma rolls her eyes, thinks ‘No shit, Sherlock’ and marvels at the fact that the guy is still writing fairytales). Regained best-selling status in under a month. Continued to publish a new book in the series every year, while maintaining a low social profile. Sponsored the opening of a new library in Storybrooke. Donates 20% of his profits to orphanages all over the world. Created a program for young sailors in his brother’s name. Did one world tour in 2015 and a dozen or so signings overall in America.

And now he is coming back to New York and has, completely without his knowledge, managed to keep Emma Swan awake until 4am on a week night and make her almost as excited as her son to see him in person.

Oh, yeah, he also looks drop dead gorgeous on all his photos and charming as hell in all the videos she finds of him at premieres and signings.

///

Emma takes the first book on her next stakeout and almost misses her guy while reading about the bandit ways of a Snow White who can give Robin Hood a run for his money.

She is 40 pages into the second one and thinking how badly she wants to punch Captain Hook in his smug pretty face when smoke starts rising from the oven. She calls out to Henry that they’re having Chinese tonight and makes sure to bookmark her page before she goes to put out the potential fire.

She tries to concentrate on the new episode of Modern Family for the first 10 minutes before cursing herself, setting her DVR and reaching for the book that holds the fate of the most devious version of Peter Pan she has ever seen.

“One time thing, my ass.”

When Saturday comes, she asks Henry what he wants to do and almost fistpumps the air when he says he’s invited to a sleepover. She doesn’t though. She loves her kid. But she does end up buried under three blankets, with damn gingerbread crumbs in her bed and a cup of hot cocoa on the nightstand, consuming Killian Jones’ fourth book in under 6 hours. Her eyes hate her.

It snows on Sunday. Henry binges the first four Harry Potter movies. Emma may or may not cry her way through the _New Tales from the Old Forest V._

 She closes the last book at 2am on a Wednesday and starts for Henry’s room before she realizes he has been asleep for hours. So she opens her laptop and googles all the details about Killian Jones’ signing in one week instead.

///

Henry is ready to start chipping away her patent “let me look into it” the very next morning. He shovels cereal in his mouth as quickly as possible so they don’t have to hurry for school and he can have plenty of time to plead his case. Then, as he is grabbing his backpack, he sees her put the first _New Tales from the Old Forest_ book in her own bag and he hesitates. He knows his mom, he knows she will never deny him something that will make him so happy. And _yet_. He also knows that sometimes pushing is not the way. He _knows_ how great NTOF is and how awesome Killian Jones must be and he thinks maybe _maybe_ she can enjoy it too. Maybe she doesn’t have to take him just because he begs it of her. Maybe she will want to go.

So Henry decides to play a long game. Well, alright, a week-long game. He can give her a week.

The next day he runs into the kitchen for Chinese when he hears the doorbell ring and doesn’t fail to spot the next book on the sofa, his mom’s frayed red bookmarker sticking out of it. He fails to hide his grin though.

On Friday she comes into his room to tell him it’s time for bed half an hour after it was time for bed and he can see the red mark on her nose from where she has been pushing her reading glasses up. She presses a kiss to his forehead and tells him he’s growing up so fast.

She narrates all her usual warnings and instructions as she’s driving him to Grace’s sleepover party but somewhere in between them her thoughts seem to drift off and she asks if they have any hot cocoa left. As if they ever run out.

Jefferson drops him off on Sunday and he watches his mom flush slightly at being found in her pajamas and smile tiredly in thanks before she guides him towards the kitchen, asking if he had any breakfast as she puts on the coffee pot, yawns and rubs at her eyes.

When he comes into the kitchen for breakfast on Thursday she pushes a plate of pancakes towards him, leans her elbows on the table, winks at him conspiratorially and asks if he thinks Miss Blanchard will mind, if he skips the last class next Wednesday so they can get in line at _Enchanted Books_ earlier.

He fistpumps the air and drags her into a hug that puts her hair in the blueberry jam but she doesn’t seem to mind.

///

Killian smiles at the little boy before him and leans as far down as the big wooden desk will allow him.

“And what’s your name, lad?”

The kid smiles so wide Killian thinks his dimples will never let up after this.

“Roland!”

“And do you have a favourite character, Roland?” Killian inquires with a smile and makes sure to keep eye contact with the boy, while he twists his usual inscription a bit to make it more personal.

“Uh-ha. Robin!”

“Robin Hood. The noble thief. Good choice, if somewhat naughty. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Santa,” he whispers and winks at the man standing behind the boy.

“Just like daddy!”

Killian gives the “daddy” an inquisitive, amused look at that.

“He means our names, not… professional choices,” the man, Robin apparently, elaborates with a chuckle.

Killian laughs and waves at him to give him the other book they’ve brought as well. Regina, usually quick to scold him for asking more than one question and signing more than one book per fan, is uncharacteristically, suspiciously, quiet on his left and he intends to take full advantage of it.

Glancing at his manager, Killian finds her not distracted and tapping away on her phone, as he expected, but apparently won over by the twin set of dimples before him.

Killian’s faith in magic and True Love and happy endings is far from what it used to be when he first moved to the States but one can’t exactly write fairytales for a living, albeit modern ones, and not preserve some spark of hope and belief in his heart. So with a devious smirk at his manager and a speedily constructed plan, he turns to Robin with a serious, 99% professional expression. A percent of the deviousness he finds himself unable to purge. He gives the man’s fingers a quick scan and proceeds.

“Speaking of professional matters, we are currently casting the characters for the first movie. I believe we are having some trouble finding a Pinocchio.”

Regina makes some sort of choked sound behind him and it is the most ungraceful thing he has ever heard from her. Which cracks his professional façade just a tad. Deviousness at 10% now.

“I know child acting is not to all parents’ taste but my manager could give you her number and perhaps we could send you the audition details, if you’re interested.”

He watches Robin’s eyes widen in surprise and then shift to Regina and then… well, Killian might be a bit rusty in the romantic department but he is sure that a stare fest like that is one for the ages. So he turns his attention back to little Ronald who has been rummaging through his backpack, oblivious to Killian’s scheming, and is now shoving a drawing of what appears to be a Robin Hood with a bow twice his size in his face.

“Why, that’s quite impressive, lad. Would you like me to sign it?”

The boy shakes his head, curls flying everywhere and dimples flashing again and damn, Killian doesn’t know about Regina but he sure has been won over twice by now.

“For you.”

“It’s for me?”

The eager nod and the thought of having something to hang on his fridge thugs on his heart strings and he finds himself clearing his throat before speaking again.

“Then I believe you should sign it for me.”

Roland looks beyond thrilled to take over as the star and Killian hands him his golden pen all too eagerly, instructing him to keep his wild scribble of a signature to the right corner of his drawing.

“Why, thank you,” he grins and takes back the pen when it looks like Roland will by quite willing to sign the desk as well. “I think your dad will be happy to get you a hot chocolate or something equally delicious now.”

He turns to look at the father in question who has moved closer to Regina so they can awkwardly exchange numbers with the pretext of formal arrangements that sound more fictitious than anything he’s ever written.

“Oh, yes, of course! Come, Roland.”

Killian watches the boy bounce over the few feet to his father and grin up at Regina with all the cuteness that melted his own heart. His manager proves just as helpless to his charms and kneels down in her five-inch heels to shake his little hand.

Killian turns with a chuckle to thank the patient person that waited for that whole fiasco to play itself out without a word or throat clearing of complaint.

“That was awesome!”

The boy, about twice Roland’s age, beams up at him as if he just moved a mountain and didn’t simply sign a couple of books and play questionably successful match-maker. But Killian is delighted to encounter another enthusiastic kid so he smiles right back, wide and genuine. Until his eye catches the hand on the boy’s shoulder and moves up a leather clad arm to take in one of the single most stunning women he has ever had the good fortune of seeing.

He feels his jaw slack just a little bit, no doubt turning his smile a shade idiotic, but finds himself unable to do much about it when confronted with the brown-haired ball of energy and the guardian angel of a woman behind him, who seems to be doing her damnest to suppress a grin and the amused twinkle in her eye and failing rather spectacularly.

“That _was_ quite the match-making,” she teases and he swears his heart stutters for the first time in almost a decade.

///

On the 20th it takes Emma over an hour to put Henry to bed. Giving three solid tries to convincing him that Mr Jones won’t be able to sign more than one (maaaybe two, if Emma pretends to be a fan herself, _pretends_ , right) book and then reassuring him twice that she put all three of his favourite editions in a tote bag on the stand by the door, and then finally letting him out of bed to go check himself.

She spends a good fifteen minutes reassuring him that Killian won’t cancel the event and silently swears to every god she doesn’t believe in that she will hunt the man down and drag him in front of her son with a Santa hat and bells on top, if he doesn’t show up.

But her research shows that Killian Jones has yet to bail on any commitment in the last three years and the thought of him in a Santa hat and bells on top _and nothing else_ jumps unbidden in Emma’s mind and has nothing to do with dragging him into her apartment for the benefit of her son.

The day itself Henry spends on cloud nine. Emma has trouble convincing him to at least have a poptart and then she has even more trouble convincing him that queuing at the bookstore from the moment it opens isn’t more important than going to school.

He is waiting for her at the school steps and she has barely killed the engine when he is running towards the yellow bug with a grin the size of which she worries might do permanent damage to his face.

Once at the bookstore, he is so excited he is almost trembling and Emma warns him to cool the jacks or she’ll have to take him to the doctor instead of Killian Jones. Henry looks so horrified at the mere suggestion that she raises her hands in indisputable surrender.

The atmosphere in the store is magical, pun intended. She has to give it to this guy, he seems to have won over everyone from two-year-olds, that by the looks of their cosplaying parents are being raised with his books, to Granny Lucas herself, who has apparently shut her diner for the day and is making coffee and hot chocolate at a stand just inside the store.

Emma gets a cup but opts out of purchasing one for Henry. With the way the kid’s hands are shaking, he’ll spill it all over his favourite editions and really get himself a heart-attack.

When they draw near to the centre of the second floor where a neat circle has been cleared out and a desk set up for Mr Jones, Emma begins to catch glimpses of dark hair and a dark blue sleeve. And if she goes on her tiptoes a bit, well, that’s her own damn business and anyway she is sure she saw a redhead with a t-shirt that read “Killian Jones owns this princess’s heart (and everything else)” so whatever.

They are five people away when she gets a good view of him.

Yup, just as attractive in real life. Perhaps even a little bit more so. What with the quick, purposeful way he signs the books in his hand and the way he tilts his head to the side, as if he’s really listening to everyone that comes before him, and the way he licks his lips every few seconds.

He tenses a bit when an overly demanding woman with a hairdo that Emma thinks must be inspired by Cruella DeVil, leans over and wraps her arm around his neck to take a selfie. Emma watches him drop his left arm in his lap from where it was resting on the desk and sketch a polite smile as his manager steps in to ask the overzealous fan to hurry up.

Emma makes a note to keep an eye on the efficient brunette in the killer heels because Henry will certainly be one of those people that need prompting to leave Killian Jones‘s side.

The little boy in front of them, accompanied by his father, seems almost as excited as Henry and her son, wonderful kid that he is, patiently listens to him babble about his favourite character and answers all his questions about one of the multiple alternative universes in the books.

Then Roland steps up and hefts his book on Mr Jones’s desk and Emma watches the action unfurl before her.

Emma has no small amount of trouble reconciling what she knows about Killian Jones with the patiently engaging and sweetly mischievous man a few feet from her. She can almost feel the grudging respect for his talent and rise from the ashes stretch and transform itself into passionate admiration for the unyieldingly kind and wonderful human he appears to be.

He hasn’t even said a word to them yet and she is already beyond grateful that her son gets to meet this man.

///

Henry barely restrains himself as he watches Roland get to talk to Killian and he facepalms internally over not thinking to bring him one of his drawings as well. Then he quickly reassures himself that he is too grown up for that.

When he sees the boy move over and shake hands with the woman that seems to work for Killian, he can’t contain himself any longer.

“That was awesome!”

Killian Jones looks at him and smiles widely. Then he looks up at his mom and his face reminds Henry of that time Miss Blanchard took them to the animal shelter and the guy at the counter looked up to greet her. He finds it interesting how two completely different faces can wear almost identical expressions.

“That _was_ quite the match-making,” his mom reaffirms.

“I try,” Killian seems to pick up his smile again. “True Love can be found in the most unlikely of places and all that.”

Killian purses his lips as if he is about to say something more but shakes his head instead and looks back at him, his smile back to its normal, welcoming, put-together shape.

“Hello, lad. What’s your name?”

“Hey, I…”

Oh. _Oh._

Henry tries swallowing a couple of times. Opens his mouth again but nothing comes out.

_Oh._

Killian Jones is waiting to hear his name and he can’t make words come out of his mouth.

“Henry?”

His mom’s voice sounds above him, confused and a touch concerned. He is about to try saying something to her at least, when Killian gets up and comes around to sit on the ground, leaning his back against the desk he was just sitting at, so that Henry has to look down at him now.

“No worries, my boy. I’m not partial to Rumpelstiltskin’s tricks, won’t use your name for anything nefarious,” he grins and extends his hand. “I’m Killian.”

 _No kidding._ Henry wants to say but feels himself smile instead. He swallows one more time and finally manages to convince his vocal cords to work.

“I’m Henry.”

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Henry,” Killian says with a satisfied grin. “I take it you like my books?”

He hears him mom snort above them but pays her no mind. _He is talking to Killian Jones._

“Yeah. They… they are pretty great.”

That was lame but Killian’s grin grows and- _Killian Jones shook his hand._

“Do you have a favourite?”

_He is talking to Killian Jones._

///

She can say she’s not charmed by his match-making ways but why lie to herself?

She can say his eyes are not the most fascinating and _magical_ blue.

She can say her heart doesn’t tremble when Henry’s voice catches and he stares at his idol like a deer caught in the headlights.

She can say that same heart doesn’t do three subsequent summersaults when Killian Jones sits down at her son’s feet and coaxes his name out with the greatest care and patience.

She can say she doesn’t practically glow with happiness when Henry suddenly rushes into a lengthy explanation of why the first, third and fifth books are his favourite.

She can say Killian doesn’t glow almost as brightly when her son explains how much he wants to become a writer _just like him_ and how excited he is for the first movie even though _it can’t possibly be as good as the book._

She can say Killian makes her picture Henry with a father figure in his life, just a general father figure, not this precise man, who is looking at her kid as if every word out of his mouth is the gospel truth.

But why lie to herself?

///

Killian ignores the first throat clearing and curses silently. He thought Roland’s dimples will buy him more time. Then again, he has been conversing with Henry for a rather long time and has been genuinely engrossed in the talk, even if he keeps sneaking glances at the gorgeous mother, smiling tentatively at the two of them.

The second throat clearing catches said mother’s attention and he watches her glance apologetically yet somewhat defiantly at Regina. He backs her up with a completely unapologetic scowl at his manager.

“Well, lad, did you bring any of those favourites for me to sign?”

“Oh, right. Sorry!”

It’s Henry’s mom that replies as she bends her head to pull the heavy books (his favourite editions) from her tote bag, blonde curls falling in her face. He can’t help but smile at the way she blows at them in a futile attempt to remove them from her line of sight.

“Which one, kid?” she says firmly, giving her boy a look that seems to be both warning and beseeching.

He is all too willing to come to her aid.

“Nonsense. You lugged those things here, the least I can do is sign all of them.”

He catches a glimpse of Henry’s triumphant look and gives him a pseudo-glare for sassing his mother. For her part, the blonde drops down to her knee, joining him on the soft green carpet and leaving Henry towering over the both of them.

“Sorry to take so much of your time,” she says following another, louder, throat clearing from Regina.

“You can make amends to my manager, love, but I’m having the time of my life.”

She quirks a disbelieving eyebrow at that and he gives her his most winning and sincere smile. Then he grabs the first book and takes his sweet time writing an inscription for Henry, encouraging him in his writing pursuits. He’s signing his name when he feels a pang somewhere in the vicinity of his chest at the thought of not seeing those pursuits play out. Killian furrows his eyebrows and thinks he can ask their last name and goggle the kid in a few years. It doesn’t quite satisfy him but it will have to do.

He draws a small ship on the next book before signing it but then hesitates when he puts the third one on his knee and holds in down with his stump. He bites his lip and glances up to find two emerald eyes staring back at him.

“Perhaps I can make this one out to you? Mrs…”

He feels a hopeless, unreasonable but thrilling little spark shoot through him as he waits for her answer.

///

Emma swears they have been sitting there, monopolizing Killian’s time for a solid 5 minutes now, but every time she even thinks about urging Henry to go, some part of her slaps her upside the head and tells her to enjoy the numbered moments she gets to spend in Killian Jones’s presence. His very charming, disarming and completely enchanting presence.

So she listens to herself and watches the way his lashes lower as he bends his head to draw an intricate (absolute adorable who-the-hell-does-that, what-even-is-this-man) little ship on Henry’s book. She listens to Henry’s excited intake and feels herself sigh and dig her knee deeper into the carpet beneath her. She looks at Killian’s broad shoulders and lets her eyes travel down his arm to where his shirt sleeve is tucked around his stump, obviously meant to cover it up. The same part that slapped her over the head seconds ago, wants to tug on his arm and tell him anything that has shaped him into the wonderfully understanding and kind-hearted man he is should not be hidden away. She looks at the strands of hair falling over his forehead and bails her hand into a fist so she doesn’t reach out and push them back.

And then she is looking into his blue eyes and-

“Perhaps I can make this one out to you? Mrs…”

She doesn’t consider the possibility that he might be inquiring after more than her name like she usually would. She is too busy pretending she wasn’t blatantly staring at him. But some blessed part of her (yeah, it’s probably the slap-happy part) has the good sense to correct him anyway.

“Swan. Miss Swan. Emma Swan.”

She blushes and concentrates all her efforts on not swearing at herself.

“Swan.”

He seems to consider it and deem it extremely satisfactory. Then he bends over the book. Once he is done, she expects him to get up and go back behind his desk but instead he reaches back for the second one he signed and adds something to it. Then he hands it back to Henry and finally gets to his feet. Emma is about to do the same when he offers her his hand.

She takes it and tells herself not to use any bodice-ripper clichés. Even if just in her head.

It’s kinda hard though. Especially when he brushes his lips over her knuckles after tugging her to her feet.

“It was an absolute pleasure to meet you, Henry,” he says with a megawatt smile when he turns to her kid and bends down a little to look him in the eyes and stage-whisper. “I look forward to coming to you for an autograph one day.”

He winks at the boy, straightens and gives her one last long look that Emma can’t quite read but which bears an inexplicable amount of apprehension and anticipation.

When they finally move away, books hugged to both their chests, his manager looks beyond relieved to see them go and Killian sees off Emma’s poorly veiled regret with a bewilderingly hopeful glance.

They are almost to the door when Emma comes to a halt. Henry gives an excited cheer behind her.

“Mom! Look! He drew a swan beside the ship.”

She pays him no mind. She is too busy staring at the phone number in the book in her own hands.


	2. Chapter 2

She programs his number into her phone the second Henry’s door slams behind him. He got an idea on the ride back. He needed to write it down right away. So in the wake of her son’s excited babbling (wasn’t Killian the best? wasn’t he so nice? wasn’t he so funny? wasn’t he so inspiring? wasn’t he so down to earth?) Emma is free to lean against their front door, let out a breath and bang her head against the solid surface behind her.

Yes, as a matter fact, he is so nice, and funny, and inspiring, and down to earth, and gorgeous as all hell. And, yes, Emma is absolutely screwed. She knows it as she takes out the book – the one with those dangerous, tempting numbers inside. She knows it as she drops down on the couch with a disgruntled huff. She knows it as she copies every digit, checking three times that she got it right.

She knows it as she deletes the first of many texts lost into the void of the unsent.

///

His mom has her addictions (hello, bear claws, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, cocoa with cinnamon and Quentin Tarantino) but her phone is not one of them. Unless she is working a case, she never has the device glued to her hand, certainly not when they are spending some ‘quality mother-son time’.

So Henry has trouble connecting her announcement of being free from work for the rest of the year with the way she keeps glancing at her phone. It’s nothing short of glaring, really, even if the glare seems to hold little animosity and a fair share of guilt.

///

Emma doesn’t text Killian Jones after meeting him on the 21st and she doesn’t text him on the 22nd and she blanches at the very thought of calling him. Now the 23rd is slipping from her as well and she is a fucking coward but one with common sense so whatever.

It’s not like this (good lord, _this_ isn’t even a thing, there’s no this or that or anything at all, there’s just her overprotectiveness of her son, resulting in her stalkerish ways, resulting in a ridiculous borderline-creepy crush, resulting in a proper crush fueled by one Killian Jones’s whole… person), it’s not like it could work.

The most it can be, Emma is well-aware despite having been on a strictly fairytales diet for the last week, is a messy and possibly disappointing one night stand that she cannot afford to have around the holidays. She has a son. The whole reason for her predicament, the little shit.

And Killian… Killian will hardly be sticking around, if he is not gone already.

The whole thing is ridiculous and she decides to put it out of her mind, even if she doesn’t have the heart to delete his number just yet.

So when Emma gets the delivery, she is confused at best and a whole lot of suspicious. She tears into the simple brown wrapping with her patent patience. Meaning – none.

Her gasp when she sees the cover of New Tales from the Old Forest VII is so loud she almost ruins what must be a Christmas surprise for Henry. She knows that’s what it is so why is she so bitterly disappointed when the beautiful inscription in Killian Jones’ ridiculously princess-y handwriting is indeed for her son and her son alone?

Henry will be over the moon. So Emma tells herself she is over the moon as well.

And then a thick envelope falls from the back of the heavy leather-bound book, with ‘Emma’ in that same stupid cursive, and she remembers what being over the moon really feels like.

///

Killian hasn’t done the whole ‘balls of paper lying everywhere but in the trashcan’ writer cliché in years. Bloody hell, years. He has been writing for years. He is a successful writer. _He is a bloody bestselling author._ It still blindsides him on occasion.

He doesn’t pay much attention to social media even if he does his best to post something every month or so. A poem. A quote. Things that speak to him and he hopes, he knows (he is slowly but surely beginning to know) speak to others as well.

But he takes special care with his fan mail. The actual mail. Not many people bother with that these days when their idols or current celeb crushes are just a tweet away. Yet more than Killian thought still do. He has a rather steady flow of letters, cards and small packages coming his way every month and he likes to think it is the perfect amount to remind him that people do want to read his words but not so much that he loses his head.

He has lost his head before and he has no interest in doing it again. Yet it seems that his heart is the one in danger now, something he never could have predicted, a plot twist so ingenious he has to tip off his hat to fate. It has certainly bested him.

Much like Emma Swan’s smile has bested him. And the way her eyes flitter away when she is nervous. And the way her hair gets in her eyes. And the way she cradles books ( _his books_ , bloody buggering hell) in her arms. And the way she looks at her son. And her son. He has rarely wanted to see what becomes of someone as much as he wants to see what becomes of Henry. Because he knows it’s going to be grand. And he wants to help it happen, he wants to watch it happen.

He is absolutely screwed. He knows it as he takes his own brand new copy of New Tales from the Old Forest VII off the shelf. He knows it as he lets his pen run with his head and, much more dangerously, with his heart as he dedicates it to the boy whose smile he can still feel tugging up the corners of his own mouth. He knows it as he takes out a stack of papers and his favourite black pen and starts writing to his mother next.

So here he is. Screwed and littering his own house. Because, much as he tries, she refuses to squeeze into the tight corset and twirl at the balls under the gazes of dozens of wish-to-be suitors. Because, much as he tries, he cannot pen anyone smart enough to outsmart her or bright enough to outshine her.

So with one last clumsy ball (truly, crumbling paper into a ball is not nearly as satisfying with one hand and Killian knows it’s a ridiculous thing to miss when he still has trouble with his shoelaces but he _does_ ) he sets all ideas of writing her into a royal world of pomp and glitter aside and pictures the way her green eyes flashed back to him one last time before she led her boy away.

And just like that he leaves the ballrooms and castles far behind and the masts and planks and black sails and vicious storms rise up with a roar. He feels himself nodding along as he adds the Captain before her Swan and biting his lip as he straps the sword to her belt and grinning like the fool he is when he sprays the sea salt on her cheeks.

///

Emma exercises the one virtue she has never possessed and waits. She wraps Henry’s book in the best wrapping paper she has left (and only sneaks a peak of the first page… ok, maybe the first five) and, on a whim, ties her own bulky letter with a bow and puts them both under the tree.

Dinner on Christmas Eve is a quiet but happy affair and as she looks at her son, she knows she will be fine no matter what, long as she has Henry. And yet… she finds it in herself to admit that maybe just because they are good, doesn’t mean they can’t be better. Maybe just because it’s been the two of them for years, doesn’t mean it always has to be.

She bites her lip until it almost bleeds but manages to be the adult, the responsible mother, and hands him one of her own presents to open before bed. No way is he ever falling asleep, if he sees the book. No way is she resisting opening her letter, if she gives him the book.

///

Christmas has never let him down!

Henry knows that his mom is only humouring him when she doesn’t argue with his talk about magic and destiny and True Love but he also knows that there are some things even she doesn’t know. So he humours her in turn and doesn’t try to convince her of the magic that is so obviously everywhere. But on Christmas he doesn’t hold back. And Christmas has always repaid his loyalty but _this year_. This year it outdid itself.

_New Tales from the Old Forest VII_

VII! As in the one that wouldn’t be out for another two months. As in the one no one has seen yet. As in the one he is currently holding in his hands.

The one with Killian Jones’s own handwriting inside it, calling him his 'favourite fan' and 'hopefully future fellow writer' and-

Christmas really outdid itself this year!

///

Emma would’ve thought she couldn’t be more grateful for the absolute joy on her son’s face when he tore through the reindeer to get to what she is sure is his new favourite possession. She would’ve thought that but then she discovers that Henry’s absolute fascination with his book also gives her a reprieve from his admirable, but sometimes rather challenging, perceptiveness.

All she needs is the puppy eyes and a beseeching ‘MOM’ and she waves him off, pardoning him for his desire to spend Christmas Day buried in stories she frankly can’t wait to read herself.

So maybe she has an ulterior motive as well, maybe there are other things she can’t wait to read as well. She thinks she can be forgiven.

Emma scowls at the way her fingers almost tremble as she tears the corner of the letter. She is not fancy enough to have a letter opener (this is the first personal letter she has received since the one that contained nothing but a car key) and obviously not sensible enough to keep it together while just opening a stupid envelope.

The bulk of the thing should’ve given it away, yet she is still surprised, still gasps a little just like she did when she saw the book, when she pulls out the small stack of papers. There are at least twenty pages in her hands and they are all covered from top to bottom in his beautiful scroll.

Emma doesn’t bother hiding in her bedroom, she is too stunned to think about keeping this from her kid, too wrapped up in trying to keep her thoughts from completely running away from her. She shuffles to the armchair, hand clutching the sheets of paper as if they might decide to slip from her fingers and make a run for it, grabs one of the many blankets, takes the couple of steps to the couch, mouth still slightly agape, and plops down in the vacant corner, glancing up to see that she could’ve started setting off fireworks and Henry still wouldn’t have looked up from his book on the other end.

She spares a thought to making herself some hot cocoa but cannot convince herself to set down the pages or risk bringing them anywhere close to the damn surface of her kitchen counter. So she just plunges in.

///

She doesn’t call him on New Year’s and she doesn’t text him.

Because it will be cliché and because he is probably celebrating and because she is too busy watching the fireworks playing over Henry’s wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression.

And yet. It’s only the twelfth minute of 2017 when she thinks about him for the first time this year. And she has a feeling it won’t be the last.

///

She sits down on her worn couch on the 18th, after having put her kid to bed and having done the dishes. After having already put three dirtbags behind bars this year. After having read New Tales from the Old Forest VII and read and re-read and re-read and re-read his short story, _her_ short story, at least a dozen times.

She sits down and prays to every deity, that might not be too hungover post-Christmas and New Year’s to hear her, that she hasn’t missed her chance with what she is afraid might be one of the single most amazingly talented and even more amazingly sweet men on earth.

///

_So how is your new year going so far? – Emma Swan (Henry’s mom, from the signing in NYC)_

His eyes boggle and his grin is almost painful but he prides himself on the fact that the shock and elation and relief (the thought of never hearing her voice again has been slowly driving him insane for oh, about 28 days) don’t incapacitate him completely for more than a couple of minutes.

///

She re-reads her stupid, _stupid_ , text for the 8th time in the last 2 minutes and rolls her eyes at herself for the 8th consecutive time. Maybe she should’ve also added what she was wearing back then and quoted word for word everything he’d said. Pathetic. She is so not good at this.

_Suddenly it seems like it might be the best one in a good while. – Killian Jones (the guy that has been staring a hole in his phone for the last month)_

Well, maybe she isn’t so bad after all.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not that she’s not used to being alone on this day. She has been alone on every single February 14th for the last ten years. And the one before that, on which she wasn’t, she doesn’t like to think about. Not about the stolen bracelet that was probably a present for someone, a gesture of love and affection, meaningful in ways it wasn’t in her hands. She doesn’t like to think about the fancy restaurant in which her palms kept itching and she felt like she was sitting too straight the whole time. One of the last bills they’d ran out on but not the first by far. One of the first charity shop skirts she’d torn but not the last by far.

Emma doesn’t like to think about any of that. And she doesn’t like to think about Valentine’s Day all that much either. She doesn’t hate it – not because of missed opportunities or past sullied experiences. She doesn’t even mind the hearts and the pink and all that over-the-top jazz. What frustrates her is the unnecessary hassle – the longer queues in her favourite coffee shop, the multiple questions of whether she’d like the red velvet Valentine’s cupcake instead, of whether she’d like their 2for1, 2forLove promotion, of whether she wants her bear claw in a heart shaped box. No, no and _what even?_

She wouldn’t mind the day one bit, if only it would mind itself. And keep out of her face for a good, old-fashioned, grey, just-that-bit-too-chilly-to-be-bareable February day.

So no, it’s not that she’s not used to being alone and it’s not that she hates the holiday. It’s just that it’s kinda hard to completely ignore a holiday that’s all about love and romance when you’ve found yourself in a sort of… budding romance. When you can actually picture a hand holding one of the numerous roses sold on the corner before Granny’s. When you can see yourself taking out two glasses instead of just the bottle and the corkscrew. When you can just imagine putting on something cheesy and as over-the-top as everything else and tucking your feet under someone’s thigh.

When you can close your eyes and conjure up that particular shade of blue that-

“MOM!”

For a bail bonds person, the way she jumps out of her skin is an embarrassment and then some.

“Jesus fuc- Kid! Easy on the eardrums, would you?”

Henry gives her that patent look every kid knows how to give an old(er) person. That inimitable ‘are you serious? is old age getting to you?’ look. It’s not her favourite one, to be honest.

“I’ve been knocking on the window for a solid minute,” he deadpans.

Emma opens her mouth to reply but realizes the reason she was so out of it and decides to save herself any additional embarrassment. Instead she reaches over and opens the passenger door so Henry can _finally_ get in.

“I’ll make it up to you by letting you choose dinner.”

“Can I save that for future usage?”

“Huh?”

“Miss Blanchard is throwing a Valentine’s party for all her students.”

“A Valentine’s party. For 10-year-olds,” Emma gives him her own ‘are you serious?’ look.

“It’s not so much Valentine’s as it’s fairytales and lots of Disney.”

He says it with his most mature tone, no doubt in an attempt to convince her of Miss Blanchard’s sanity but Emma can see his eyes sparkling. A fairytales party, for God’s sake.

“And I may or may not have promised to bring my book.”

She doesn’t even have to ask which book.

“ _Henry._ “

“Killian said it’s fine!”

Of course he did. Killian will probably say it’s okay, if Henry wanted to organize the party in his house. Will probably fly the whole class to Storybrooke, Nowhere, Maine. Giving Henry his skype had been a huge mistake.

“I wonder what Regina would say,” she mutters but turns around and starts the engine anyway.

If Killian wants half the population of NY to have read his book before it even hit the bookstores, that’s his own damn business. The thing would probably be a hit regardless. And she could just imagine him telling her not to get her knickers all twisted up over it.

///

It isn’t lying per say. Miss Blanchard _is_ organizing a fairytale party with lots of Disney binging and a NTOF reading. Was it her idea? Not precisely. Is she doing it? Yes. So Henry thinks he is on the lighter side of that particular grey area.

Plus, he thinks his mom and Killian will hardly take issue with the plan he formed almost as soon as Killian told him he planned on coming to New York for Valentine’s Day.

///

She makes it to 9:36pm when Henry texts her that Miss Blanchard invited him and a couple of other students that live far to stay over. Emma takes it as a sign from the universe. A sign saying ‘fix your hair, pour yourself a glass of red and call him’.

So she does just that. She touches up her make up as well while in front of the mirror. Checks there’s no laundry in the range of her laptop’s camera, logs into Skype and shoots Killian a quick text.

_Wanna Skype?_

Emma nods to herself. Good, chill, casual (to the point where she knows he might cringe). Perfect for their not-really-a-relationship-cuz-we’ve-only-seen-each-other-once-but-kind-of-a-relationship-because-we-text-every-day-(all-day)-and-skype-every-weekend.

_Tomorrow perhaps?_

Oh. Emma stares at her phone screen, confusion dominating her senses while reality tries to realign with her expectations.

It’s fine, of course. Perfectly fine. He is probably busy. At 10:10pm. On Valentine’s Day. It’s fine. She is not gonna think about it too hard. It’s fine.

She texts him precisely that ( _It’s fine.)_   and goes to the bathroom to remove the day old make-up that suddenly feels like it’s suffocating her.

///

He honest-to-God bangs his head against the desk. Why is writing for Emma Swan so bloody hard?

Not writing _about_ her. Oh, no, writing about her is Killian’s new favourite pastime. Whether he is writing her dry sense of humour into one of his more cynical characters or writing the colour of her eyes into his (undeniably poor) attempts at verse, writing Emma Swan is both exhilarating and liberating.

Writing _for_ her is a whole different ballgame. He honestly thought that first short story had been so damn hard because he hadn’t had a clue how she’d react to receiving it. Over the last week he’s realized that it had a lot to do with not knowing how she’d react to _it_.

As fascinated (and absolutely smitten) as he is with Emma, there is still a hell of a lot that he doesn’t know about her. And trying to write her a bloody poem (for bloody Valentine’s Day no less) is slowly but surely giving him a case of proper anxiety.

Would she think it too cheesy? Too frivolous? Too old-fashioned? Ridiculous? Over the top? How is he to write anything, if his head is full of more question marks than words?

His phone pings again and Killian sends a silent prayer to goddamn Cupid, or whoever is on call for poor bastards like him, that it’s not Emma again because he can only exercise so much self-control when faced with the chance to see her face. Even if just on his computer.

_Just about 20 hours or so and you’d get to see her in the flesh, mate. Touch her. Perhaps… kiss her._

Bloody hell. _Those_ thoughts are worse than the doubts in his head when it comes to productivity. So whether to torture himself further or to shake himself from his daydream (is it still a day dream, if it’s night but you’re still awake?), he grabs his phone.

It’s not Emma and the mix of relief and disappointment is one of the strangest sensations he has ever experienced. And that’s saying something.

It’s Regina of all people. Texting him a picture of a huge bouquet of all things. His confusion lasts for all of three seconds before her second text comes through.

_‘Happy Valentine’s, Jones. I guess gratitude is in order.’_

He can just picture Regina’s face, pinched in discomfort, shooting poor Robin fiery looks at he nudges her to keep typing after every word.

And then the confusion is back.

_Why the hell are they wishing me a happy holiday a day early?_

His eyes fly to the little numbers above the digital clock on his phone with well-calculated dread and his stomach starts plummeting before he has even registered what he is seeing.

_Tue Feb 14_

14th.

“Bloody buggering fuck!”

He starts opening and logging into Skype so fast he can almost hear his laptop sputtering in indignation.

///

She is already in bed. Old pjs, hair up in a loose bun she can fall asleep in, if she so pleases, her second glass of wine on the nightstand and Donna Tart’s first novel in her hands (if it feels a bit like cheating on Killian, well, maybe she has no issue with that right now).

Speaking of which-

Her Skype suddenly comes to life with a jarring ringing which is that much more annoying and _loud_ thanks to the quiet in her bedroom. After a lifetime of one too many neighbors complaining about the crying baby she couldn’t seem to bounce to sleep, Emma’s body seizes in discomfort from being the source of noise so close to midnight. Then she sees Killian’s face on her screen and her everything seizes for a whole different reason.

 _Seriously?!_ seems to be today’s motto.

Emma glances down to make sure there are at least no peanut butter stains on her t-shirt and then hits the green button with a frustrated sigh. However, her put-togetherness (or lack thereof) is quickly pushed to the backburner when an obviously distressed Killian Jones, if the way he is pulling at his hair is anything to go by, appears on her screen.

“Killian?”

His head snaps up so fast she can almost hear his neck pop, expression sliding from mortification into unadulterated relief in a millisecond.

“Swan,” he breathes it out in a way that already has him half way to forgiven for not humouring her earlier.

“What’s u-“

“I’m so so _so_ sorry! Bloody hell, love, I swear I thought it was the 13th. I’ve been struggling with this… thing for the last week and I completely lost track of the whole space-time continuum. Please, forgive me, I can’t believe I ju-“

“Killian, slow down. It’s _fine_ ,” she says on a half-laugh and means it for the first time tonight.

Babbling Killian just made the top 5 of her favourite Killians.

“It is most certainly not. I cannot believe I buggered this up. I was going to come down to New York tomorrow. Today. Bloody- I’m so sorry, Swan. I didn’t want to speak to you in case I let myself slip up and-“

“ _Killian._ It’s alright. It’s not a big deal. I just thought…” she shrugs one shoulder. “You know… wouldn’t be too bad to see your face today.”

“It’s marvelous to see your face any day, Emma. I swear I was just afraid I might-“

“Seriously, you need to stop explaining yourself. Though…”

It’s only now that his explanation actually sets in and Emma feels her insides vibrate a little at the thought of seeing him again. For the first time since… whatever it is they started doing.

“Though?” he asks and she can practically feel the anxiety radiating from her computer screen and pulls it a little closer on pure instinct, gives him a little smile, just on this side of coy and that side of reassuring.

“Well… since you had it all planned and everything, and I’m guessing you can afford to take a day off to- I mean, if you can’t, it’s fine but you said-“

“Swan,” he is the one sounding amused now and Emma realizes her gaze has dropped to her keyboard. “Please, don’t misunderstand me. I may have miscalculated but I still very much plan to see you tomorrow. Face to face.”

She swallows and watches his smile dip a little as his eyes soften.

“If you’ll allow me.”

She nods dumbly before realizing he’d probably like a proper answer.

“Ye-yeah. I think that can be arranged.”

“Wonderful!” Killian beams at her and for a minute they seem to just stare at each other, reacquainting themselves with their faces, the way only people who haven’t seen each other much but really _really_ want to can. “I hope I didn’t wake you… If you have to go to bed-“

“No, no,” Emma hurries to reassure him, maybe embarrassingly fast, but she finds that her embarrassment tolerance rises with the hours she’s been awake. “I mean, I’m already in bed so-“

“So I can see, love.”

“Hey! You are the one who called me at-“ she checks the time on her phone only to realize it is barely past 11pm. “Whatever. You don’t get to complain.”

“Believe me, Swan, you will never hear me complain about seeing you in bed.”

She gives him her and Henry’s ‘are you serious?’ look just to bring it all full circle. It doesn’t seem to faze him much and her treacherous mind singsongs that he’ll fit right into their routine.

“Whatever. How was your day?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To mark the beginning of December properly I have something new for this verse. Whether you enjoyed this last December as part of my 'Tis The Season series, found it later on or are just now stumbling upon it - I hope this starts off your holiday fanfic endeavors just right (I sure hope it does the same for mine 'cause I have plans for this fic).
> 
> Happy beginning of Christmas and welcome back to New Tales from the Old Forest!

She stomps back to her car through five feet of snow, feeling the coldness slither in through the zipper and the little hole on the inner side of her left boot. Wet socks. The last thing Emma Swan needs at 8 pm on the 24th of December.

Henry is in the backseat where she left him 15 minutes ago, his fingers moving rapidly over the screen of his phone now that it is too dark for him to be reading his book. 

Emma sighs at the memory of that Golden Age of 15 minutes ago. Back when hope and excitement and that warm fuzzy feeling that she had been making tentative friends with over the last year had kept her from realizing exactly how fucking cold and windy the coast of Maine was in the smack-dab middle of winter. Yes, her nerves had been pulled pretty tight back then but not like  _this._ Not like now.

15 minutes ago it felt like Dasher, Dancer... Patter? Pranter? Ugh. All of Santa's prats of reindeer were making her insides their new holiday runway. Led by that Cupid bastard. 

That’s it. She is blaming it all on some freaking Christmas reindeer possession or... yeah, that sounds good.

Because there is no way she would be in this situation, if she was in possession of all her faculties. Nope, no way. This situation is  _exactly_ the kind of situation that Emma Swan is an expert at avoiding. Or she was. A year ago.

And yet. Here she is. At 8:07 pm now, on the freaking 24th of freaking December, with a trunk full of presents, a 11-year-old in the backseat and three Americanos buzzing through her system.

In Storybrooke, fucking Maine, in front of Killian fucking Jones' house. His very dark. Very empty house. 

How did she end up here again?

Oh, yeah.

///

 

It's official. Emma Swan is a moron. An absolute fucking idiot. It takes exactly 2 days, 1 hour and oh, 20 or so minutes after Killian kissed her goodbye and got into his cab to the airport for- 

_It’s the middle of February and it's not freezing or anything but the wind is giving a vicious whipping to any and all skin she was foolish enough to leave exposed. And she would like nothing more than to take Killian's hand - his very gloveless, very cold hand - and squeeze them into the cab waiting in front of her apartment (yes, they had dinner at her apartment and she royally screwed it up and what else is new in Emma Swan’s world)._

_But Henry is waiting for her inside, hopefully (but highly unlikely after an evening spent in Killian's presence) already in bed and she has a honey trap to set tomorrow and her homework to do before that and a drive to the airport and back really doesn't sound that appealing._

_So instead she sways a little on her feet and quirks up an eyebrow and says she'll get him a calendar for next time and she lets him pull her in so that she kinda steps on his toes but also ends up with his lips on the corner of her mouth. She lets her hands frame his face and regrets the long coat that she was so grateful for a moment ago because she can barely feel his hand on her waist through the thick wool. She opens her mouth and tastes her Bechamel sauce (which is sadly inferior to her Bolognese). She sighs into him and digs her nose into his cheek when he goes to pull back. She plays with the soft part of his left ear and makes him kiss her again, less tongue, more teeth, more pressure and the very first licks of regret for not taking this further when she had the chance. She lets him let her go and get into the cab. And she waves when he is already almost out of sight._

It takes exactly 2 days, 1 hour and oh, 25 minutes or so now after Killian kissed her goodbye and got in his cab to the airport for those licks of regret to become a full-on raging fire of 'Emma Swan is an absolute fucking idiot for not banging Killian Jones when she had the chance’.

///

 

It's official. Killian Jones is an idiot. A complete and utter bonehead. It takes precisely one solid night of sleep and two days without hearing from Emma for him to realize that.

Of course, he heard from Henry but he highly doubts that Emma knows that and that… well…

 _"How_ how _did you manage to mess that up?"_

_Killian scrubs his good hand down his face and tries to blink his eyes properly open. Getting in at 'I don't want to look at the clock 'cause my head knows I won't like what I see' o'clock and getting up for a meeting with Regina the next morning (because some people know how to tell days and some other people are too stubborn to admit their stupidity and ask for a re-schedule) is really not conductive to him being ship-shape in the late afternoon._

_Which, unfortunately, is when Henry gets home from school and wants to know precisely why Killian showed up at Emma's door two hours after him on the 15th of February._

_"I assure you, lad, I keep asking myself the same thing."_

_"I convinced my teacher to organize a Valentine's Day sleepover just so you guys can have a...." Henry stammers a bit here and if Killian was more awake, he'd be able to tell if it's the light in his room or the boy is actually blushing. "You know... grown-ups sleepover.."_

_He... does not know what he is supposed to say to that. What would Emma want him to say to that? What would he tell his own son, if he-_

_"Well, unplanned as it was, I'm glad that my miscalculation-"_

_Henry snorts at that but Killian chooses to ignore it._

_"-meant I got to spent time with both your mother and you."_

Yeah, that… that was nice. Talking to Henry always is. Nice and rejuvenating and inspiring and life-reaffirming and many other things that Killian will keep to himself so that he doesn’t completely freak out the poor boy.

His mother however is a whole different ballgame. Obviously. Would be concerning, if she wasn’t…

He is losing his bloody mind. It has been scattered all over ever since he got back but now that he’s had a good night’s rest, it’s even worse. Because now he gets to think about it. His little impromptu surprise. He gets to think and analyze and rationalize and all those things he knows make his characters compelling on page but make his own life bloody miserable on practice.

And the more he thinks about it, the more he wants to get up and go bang his head against the tiles in his bathroom.

_What the hell was he thinking?!_

Flying over on Valentine’s Day? Showing up _a day late_ with a bloody bouquet of bloody paper flowers. Paper flowers! Lord, could he be more of a walking cliché? At least he left the poem attempts on his desk where they are merrily mocking him right now.

What did Emma do on Valentine’s Day (the _actual_ day, bloody buggering-)? She simply called him.

“Of course she did, she is a bloody normal person, who hasn’t spent the last seven years in minimum contact with humanity.”

He remembers the obvious surprise on her face when he showed up on her doorstep. Even after he had blurted out his plans to her over Skype the night before. Perhaps even after that she didn’t expect him to show up. Perhaps she thought he was a somewhat normal and well-functioning person.

“Well, joke’s on her, ain’t it?”

He remembers her slight discomfort at having him in her apartment – her eyes darting this way and that way, her hand aborting its movement as she reached to brush something off his shoulder.

He remembers Henry’s shock at his arriving just after he had gotten home himself – the way his eyes grew wide – surprise and then glee (bless the lad’s pure heart, not finding anything weird about him just showing up on their doorstep at 11 in the morning).

He remembers the awkwardness at trying to figure out what to do now that they were obviously spending the day together – movies seemed too time-wasting, skating seemed like too much activity, a simple walk seemed aimless and why was this so bloody hard, he had been talking to both of them on the regular for over a month.

He remembers other things too. Still feels them rather. He feels the brush of her fingers as she handed him a cup of coffee while listing places in New York City _that had good coffee_. He feels the brush of her shoulder against his as they walked down a narrow sidewalk and he struggled to always stay on her right. He feels her breath just below his ear where it tickled him every time she leaned to supply any crucial information that he might need to comprehend the infinite amount of school stories that Henry seemed to be set on regaling him with. He feels the way their couch bounced as the lad dropped next to him, while Emma was getting dinner ready, and broke his words-per-minute record again, this time asking Killian for stories from book signings and the casting for the movie and everything else that he imagines any self-proclaimed ‘fan’ will eventually lose the battle with trying to keep locked inside.

And then he remembers the expression on her face. The utter horror that washed over when she realized that she’d prepared a steak dinner for a one-handed man.

It’s been years. It’s not… well, it’s never not a shock but it’s not a surprise anymore. When he discovers something new, something old that he can’t do anymore. Of course, he came across the fork and knife issue a long time ago – has it mostly figured out by this point.

Funny how he didn’t see this new thing coming – disappointing the girl you like. It probably has something to do with the fact that he hasn’t actually liked a girl in the time he has been operating with one hand. Not like that. Not _a girl_ like that.

And she seems beyond embarrassed or annoyed or worried, she seemed on a whole other plane, holding court with herself over the soundness of her decision. Whether the one to make steak for dinner or to let him into her house (her life) – Killian really isn’t sure he wants to know, even while his brain insists on probing and guessing and analyzing and basically bloody torturing him.

“You should just let mom cut it for you. I always do. Steak is a bitch.”

“Henry! Language.”

“Sorry. Steak is a pain.”

The lad’s expression is so droll, it somehow manages to make him chuckle and draw him out of his plans to just spear the steak on his fork and risk doing his best impersonation of the dining scene from Beauty and the Beast. 

And then he remembers the pinkness of her nose in the cold evening air and the press of her warm tongue so in contrast with that chilly little nose and the way she seemed to shuffle into him every time he considered pulling back and the almost wistful glow in her eyes when he finally did.

He remembers something and reaches for his phone and then he remembers another and drops it like it’s burning his only remaining fingers.

And that’s how 2 days pass. And then another 2. And then a week.

And during the second week he starts reaching for it less and less because it doesn’t really take that much thinking and analyzing to figure out what it means that she hasn’t called him either.

///

 

Henry is no fool. He knows that they are being idiots. He knows they probably had one of those ‘possible True Love alert’ moments that all of Killian’s True Love couples have at some point in the books and probably got all freaked out because he can’t remember his mom dating anybody like ever and Killian doesn’t look like he even knows how to use the word ‘date’ correctly.

The problem is that Henry has no one to bet against on who will break first.

The bigger problem is that he has no one to help him figure out when he should stop humouring them and step in.

///

 

She is high on life. Yup, Emma Swan is actually feeling pretty damn good about herself for once.

She caught her perp with minimum effort for a maximum paycheck. Henry got an A on the art project she helped him prepare. There is a new pizza place down the street and it is divine. Her kid has great taste and chose her favourite Indiana Jones movie for tonight and then promptly went to bed after it with almost no whining at all.

Oh, and she is having a great hair day.

Realistically it’s probably not much. But dammit, Emma feels good about herself. She feels good enough to pick up her phone and hit Killian Jones’ name. More impressive yet, she feels good enough not to hang up as it starts ringing.

For once she feels good enough to shut up the thought of ‘well, he was obviously just trying to get into your pants and then that didn’t happen so it’s-

“Swan?”

She almost swallows her fucking tongue. Literally. And people actually do that. And Emma thinks she might have a slight phobia of swallowing her tongue. And why is she thinking about that now?

“Emma?”

“Are you afraid of swallowing your tongue?”

“Are- I beg your pardon?”

Pillow in the corner of the couch, meet Emma’s face.

“Emma?”

“Yup. Hey. Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry. I mean… Well, no, I just… Umm…”

“Swan, I-“

“Did we break up?”

Pillow, kindly suffocate Emma to death.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Stop begging and actually answer one of my questions!”

“Right. Sorry. I am. Sorry. I’m very sorry, love. We did not break up. I mean, if we are- If you thought we were- Not that I didn’t- I mean- Bloody hell!”

“Yeah, I thought we were.”

“Right. Good. That’s… me too. So we still are. We didn’t, we definitely didn’t break up.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Pillow, muffle any whiny sounds Emma might make.

“I just wanted to give you some time… space.”

“We live in different cities.”

“Right. I just wasn’t sure how happy you were about me just showing up in yours.”

“What?!”

“Well, I… well…”

Pillow, try not to die while Emma takes out her frustrations on you, you were kinda expensive.

“Killian, I… OK, I’m sorry, if I wasn’t... I just… No guy has spent time with me and Henry and had dinner with us and all that jazz.”

“Oh. Alright. I guess… I didn’t think you might have… not been seeing anyone for awhile as well.”

“No, I mean… never.”

“Never?”

“I mean, I have- of course, but… No one’s ever spent the day with us like that. Ever.”

“And I made you.”

“What? No. I mean- I- we wanted you to. I would’ve told you not to come, if I didn’t. I… I didn’t think it went that bad. I mean, I-”

“No. No, it didn’t! It was… I had a lovely time, Emma, I just…”

“Right. Well, me too.”

“That’s good. Good, we both enjoyed spending some time together.”

“Sounds like it.”

“That’s…”

Pillow, sorry for being catapulted across the room as Emma finally allows herself to fist-pump the air at Killian's quiet chuckle.

“So what was the other question?”

“Huh?”

“We’ve established that we haven’t broken up. So what was the other question that I was supposed to answer?”

“Oh. Uhhh… Oh, oh! Aren’t you afraid of swallowing your tongue? I don’t mean like getting tongue-tied but like _literally_ swallowing your tongue. Just like-“

///

 

He gets finding her on the couch. He gets the dead phone. He gets the empty cup of coffee. He gets the tangled hair and slight smile.

But for the life of him Henry can’t explain the decorative pillow thrown half across the hallway.

///

 

Right, ok, this is not _exactly_ how she ended up in front of Killian Jones’ house on Christmas Eve but… we’re getting there.

‘Patience is a virtue’ as Killian would say.

The ass.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thanks so much to everyone who so enthusiastically dived back into this story again - means a lot! Hope the joy of the season is already upon you! :)

She wraps her arms tighter around herself and jumps in place to get the blood flowing or whatever people hope for when they do that. Perhaps they hope to jump high enough that they never come back down and just orbit the cold earth from then on. Sounded plausible enough.

But, looking out at the Storybrooke harbor, Emma has to admit that she kinda gets what Killian sees in the place. When it’s not trying to turn you into an icicle that is.

This is ridiculous. She knows enough about Storybrooke to find some hot cocoa, warm food and well, just warmth in general. So with one last semi-mournful, semi-accusatory look at Killian’s house, she gets back in her bug and asks Henry how he feels about some grilled cheese.

///

Emma knows next to nothing about Storybrooke. Usually it’s her complaining to Killian about the hustle and bustle of New York City and he either doesn’t have a bad word to say about the sleepy town he spends most of his time in or he is way less of a whiner than Emma.

(It’s probably the latter but she likes to reassure herself with the former.)

She knows nothing until the day of “The Big Skype Hijacking” as her son had dubbed it. Why? He had a lengthy explanation about the importance of title-picking for a budding author. She… does not entirely get it. Then again, maybe she is a bit prejudiced ever since “The Horrific Waffle Fiasco”. The nerve on that kid, she swears.

It all starts with her getting home early and hearing Henry’s laugher. The pros of having an 11-year-old include the fact that you are still not completely banned from the perimeter of their room but at the same time you have been made aware of what a privilege that is. And how soon it will be taken from you.

As it stands Henry’s door is thrown wide open, probably thanks to the sneaker that is jammed half under it. A definite sign of the haste with which he threw himself on his bed. And the voice drifting from his laptop explains it all.

“Well, that is quite the fascinating story, lad. So now he is stuck with this little bird?”

“Yes, but he has no idea what to do with it. He says the thing is nocturnal and won’t let him sleep!” Henry’s merriment makes her mouth tick up in seconds.

Killian’s deep laughter doesn’t hurt either.

“And has your teacher actually been to see the poor creature? Or its poor besotted owner?”

“That’s the thing – I don’t knoooow! His “bird-induced insomnia” was the last we heard from David. You know, when he came by the school to drop off some textbooks we had left behind. I’ve never seen anyone look so happy about kids leaving their stuff all over.”

“Hmmm. Well, this just won’t do now, will it? We need more intel before we can proceed with any confidence.”

“Well, I was thinking…”

Uh-oh. She knows that tone. Last time he heard that tone, they spent 3 hours in The Belle of Bookstores and came out carring so much shit Emma didn’t have to workout for a week.

“Mhmmm…”

It seems like Killian has a sixth sense about “the tone” as well.

“Maybe you could convince mom that a pet is a good thing for a kid to have around. You know, a pre-teen thing. She is really into those recently.”

“Right. And me, with all my expertise on pre-teens...”

“You write children’s slash young adults slash anyone who has good taste books!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, young man!”

“But it might get me a puppy!”

“I’m glad to see you think your mother so easily bought, kid,” she finally joins in, leaning a hip on the doorjam and crossing her arms in her favourite ‘I’m a single mom who takes no bullshit’ pose.

“Oh. Hey, mom,” Henry, on the other hand, has his own favourite ‘I’m your little angel and you’ll forgive me anything’ face.

“Nonsense, Swan, the lad thinks your defenses so insurmountable that he felt the need to contract a professional tale spinner.”

The laptop is angled so that she can’t see Killian’s face but Emma finds herself perfectly capable of envisioning his ‘I’m so charming and suave, how can you resist me’ grin.

Because it’s 5pm and the universe is probably napping and so unable to conspire against her, Henry’s phone rings not 10 minutes later and Emma has no qualms about settling herself on the floor beside his bed and dragging his laptop into her lap.

_Hijack #1: Emma Swan taking over for Henry Swan_

“Fancy seeing your face, love.”

“Wish I could say the same but that light is really not doing you any favours.”

She teases him because she _can_. Because they’ve established that “they definitely did not break up” three weeks ago and have talked every day since. She teases him because they are good. If she wasn’t afraid that it might wake up the universe and jinx them all to hell, Emma would say that they are _very_ good.

“Oy! No need to take me down quite so many notches, Swan. I believe this place was designed to flatter Ruby’s pale complexion and no one else’s.”

It is so obvious that he is in a public place, a diner of sorts, with a vibe that’s even familiar-ish. Which is why the slight note of irritation? warning? _jealousy_? in her tone is absolutely ridiculous and yet-

“Who’s Ruby?”

“Oh. Have I not told you this?”

“Mmm, don’t think so.”

Yup, definitely irritated now.

“Remember where I had my signing in your fair New York?”

“Yeah, I seem to recall that place and event. I believe Henry made me check it on Google maps 4 times. 4 times. A bookshop that _we had been to before_! I’m surprised he didn’t make me do a test drive before the signing to see how fast we get there.”

“Right,” he probably deserves some credit for swallowing his laughter but she sure isn’t going to give it to him. “And you know Granny? From the diner across the bookstore?”

“I’ve only been addicted to her grilled cheese for like 2 years. ‘Course I know Granny, Killian, would you get to the point already?”

“Bloody hell. Fine. Long story short – and trust me that’s no small sacrifice for a writer – Granny used to run a diner in Storybrooke with her granddaughter Ruby. They were doing real well but then Ruby went off to model in New York so they decided to open a… a branch there. But then, one Christmas-“

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry, hold up and take in some air, I didn’t mean get to the point _that_ fast.”

Killian, bless him, actually does need to suck in some air and she shakes her head in fond exasperation.

“So, let me see, if I’m getting this right. Granny, the same Granny who has been feeding me and Henry almost every weekend for years now, used to live in Storybrooke? You used to know each other?”

“That is correct. Is why I chose the bookstore across her charming establishment. And why she was the one keeping everyone there hydrated and nourished.”

Emma snorts. She’s hard pressed to define Granny’s hot chocolate as hydrating. You can eat the thing with a spoon, it’s so thick and creamy… Some days Emma thinks she’d rather part with a kidney than Granny’s cocoa.

“Alright. Let’s ignore how absolutely bizzare that coincidence is-“

“As I told you, lass, no coincidence at all. I very purposefully chose-“

“Right, right. I got it. But still. You know Granny! Our Granny!”

“Well, to be fair, Swan, she was _my_ Granny first.”

His grin is infuriating. And so is the way his hair falls across his forehead. And the light circling under his eyes. And the long eyelashes that swipe over it whenever he blinks at her. How can someone look so innocent and infuriating at the same time?

She knows Killian Jones is far _far_ from innocent. And maybe it’s because she knows his story that sometimes she just wants to reach through her laptop (or Henry’s as the case may be) and brush his hair and wrap her arms around him and smother him with kisses. And that’s just plain ridiculous so-

“Whatever. Why is she here and her granddaughter is in Storybrooke, if she was the one working in New York?”

The granddaughter is still… a question mark. An ex-model question mark.

“ _As I was just saying,_ one Christmas Ruby came back and after one too many holiday run-ins with a certain deputy, she never left. But the place in New York was literally ready to open and, if you know Granny, you know that woman never turns down a challenge, so… Granny is there, making sure you don’t starve on your stakeouts and Ruby is here, bugging me closer and closer to an early grave. One mediocre cup of coffee at a time.”

“I heard that, Jones!”

And Emma heard _that_.

“Granny’s is a chain… Huh. I guess wonders do never cease…”

“Sorry, love, Regina seems to be calling me on here. I’ll just give her a call instead and be right back.”

And that’s how it happens.

_Hijack #2: Ruby Lucas taking over for Killian Jones_

“Freaking finally! I thought I’d never get my chance.”

Suddenly Emma’s screen is filled with a whole lot of what she will soon know is Ruby Lucas.

“Hey?”

“Hi! I’m Ruby. And you must be the magical Emma!”

Emma sputters. It’s not graceful and it’s not pretty but at least she’s not drinking anything.

The hell? What kind of things has Killian been saying about her?

“ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Hmmm?”

“ _Magical_ Emma?”

“Oh. Sorry. That’s just what I’ve been calling you in my head. Not like to Killian’s face or anything.”

The Ruby girl gets a thoughtful, borderline fiendish look on her face.

“Maybe I should. Can someone die from blushing?”

“Umm… I don’t think so. Can we go back to how we’ve never met but you have like… a nickname for me?”

Eyes darting away just for a second, probably to check that Killian is still occupied with his manager, and Ruby fixes her with a serious look. It’s like watching all the bubble exit a champagne bottle until all that’s left is concentrated alcohol that can really do a number on your head.

“He’s been back in Storybrooke for a few years now. But he’s only been _back_ for a couple of months.”

…

“Oh.”

…

“I don’t know what kinda magic,” Ruby scrunches up her unnecessary perfect nose and waves her hand in what Emma supposes illustrates magic. “you’ve been doing but just keep doing it, yeah?”

…

“I-“

…

“And that’s how Jones ended with a drawn mustache and a perm!”

“Bloody hell, woman!”

“She needs to be warned.”

“Get off. Off. Stay away from my computer and my- Off.”

“Looovely to finally meet you, Emma!”

Ruby leaves with a wink and a wave and a generous view of her retreating back. Killian reemerges with the most sheepish look on his face and she smiles.

She doesn’t call him her boyfriend either. The word feels so… foreign. She is not sure her mouth would know how to form the syllables.

But other parts of her anatomy are definitely beating out the rhythm.

“Bloody hell, why does Regina insist on skyping me?!”

_Hijack #3: Roland Hood stealing the whole show_

///

He can tell she is up to something. He knows his mom pretty well – has known her all his life, you might say.

She is great at fooling all her “targets” and depositing their asses in jail before they even realized what the hell is going on. She is not too bad at faking it with his teachers and the other parents at his school either. Expect her smile is always like… extra tight and fake-y around the other moms, especially the ones with such long nails that Henry is always a bit apprehensive about shaking hands with them – except they usually prefer to pat him on the head and squeeze him up with something like “poor sweetheart” which makes his mom look even more like an arrow drawn up and ready to fly off. Honestly, sometimes he doesn’t get adults at all.

But he gets his mom and he knows she is up to something. It’s just that… he is as well so he’ll let it slide this one time.

Henry figured (and Killian reluctantly agreed) that just because they are not getting a pet, doesn’t mean that Killian possibly can’t. There is, of course, the small matter of him being in another state but somehow David doesn’t think to ask after any whereabouts when Henry tells him he is picking a cat for his mom’s boyfriend.

Killian asked for more intel before he agrees to tackle the Teacher-Pet case. He also vehemently protested naming it that but, for the life of him, Henry doesn’t understand why – it is all about getting his _teacher_ together with the _pet_ shelter’s owner. It is perfect and Killian is being silly.

It is fun really. To find out that Killian can be silly as well and get cranky when his coffee is “bollocks” (whatever that is, he isn’t supposed to use it). He never really considered the fact that Killian Jones might be genius and talented and super awesome but also… silly. It’s nice.

And because he has seen Killian in action – his mom told him all about Roland hijacking Regina’s Skype and calling Killian non-stop for a full two hours before he was discovered – he knows that his matchmaking skills are the best money could buy – or, you know, puppy eyes since it’s not like he has any money. He feels like he might be getting a bit old for that trick but it seems to work just as well on Killian as it always does on his mom and desperate times…

///

The idea pops into her head about an hour after “meeting” Ruby for the first time. And once there it’s like that little piece of popcorn that’s stuck to the roof of your mouth and keeps annoying you and _you just can’t get it off._

And then she goes to Granny’s a couple of days later and the woman looks at her over her glasses and says she heard her granddaughter made her acquaintance. Says she heard someone else _has been making her acquaintance_ as well. Emma is pretty sure that’s not how you use that phrase but she is also too busy dumping half the cinnamon shaker in her cocoa and fleeing as if Granny had turned into a pack of wolves.

And then Ruby adds her on Facebook. And Emma eyes the request suspicious all Thursday and then she does the one thing Emma from like 4 months ago would probably gag at her doing. She asks Killian what he thinks. And frankly? Emma from like 4 months ago can suck it. Because she has someone whose opinion she values and respects and actually _wants_ and she is OK with telling him that the brunette freaked her out a bit and eventually, after a couple of hours on the phone, she even tells him she was a bit “on the fence about this Ruby chic” when he first mentioned her and if his smirk is anything to go by, he knows exactly what that means but just shakes his head and says “Lucas is a pest. The big, fangy kind, not the kind you can swap away”. And really in the end, Killian just tells her to go with her gut – Ruby is cool in his books, her grandmother probably saved him from being homeless both times he rolled into Storybrooke with nothing but the clothes on his back, an unfinished manuscript and a spectacular hangover. In the end, it’s not about Killian telling her what to do at all, it’s about her having someone to talk it out with and make up her mind. It’s new. It’s kinda wonderful.

And then Henry asks if he can invite Killian to his birthday. His birthday. In August. 5 months away.

And then because being his girlfriend or whatever (she still cannot say the thing with adding “whatever” after, she has tried) doesn’t mean that she is not still a fan or whatever (that one is just a bit embarrassing – being a _fan_ of your boyfriend… or whatever). So, yeah, she checks Killian Jones’ blog, which he updates only every month or so but, yeah, she follows him on Instagram and she follows his blog and whatever, he follows her as well and once said something ridiculous along the lines of him being a fan of her, like every part of her or whatever, so yeah. It’s fine.

But then she opens his blog, while on a ridiculously unproductive stakeout and she sees his last post from a couple of hours ago.

_The wonder isn’t that love find us, as strange and magical and mystical and wonderful and unbelievable as that feels._

_The wonder is that even when we never find it, even when love waits in the wings of dream for too long, even when it doesn’t knock on the door we’ve been staring as for years, or leave messages in bottles or on answering machines or on Facebook walls or in the bloody sand to be washed away by the waves of time, even when love doesn’t put flowers in our hands or tears of incomparable joy or unimaginable heartbreak in our eyes… even then… so many of us never stop believing in love._

_Imagine how lucky we are. To have such hope, such faith. And then, occasionally, when we are so very very lucky… such love._

She is doing it.


	6. Chapter 6

She knows where the door to the pet shelter is. Because ever since he was four Henry has had a weakness for gluing his little nose to any glass surface behind which could be found kittens. And maybe she has always had a weakness for places like that… temporary homes for those still looking for one – maybe she has identified with a fish or two. Mostly because, in the last couple of weeks – despite her firm and repetitive pronouncements that no, they are not getting a pet – Henry has called her to pick him up from the shelter at least 4 times.

Point is she knows where the freaking door is, which is why she is not really looking for it but rather staring at her Instagram feed and Killian’s #planesunrise photo from a few hours ago and trying to figure out (and convince herself that she is not mad or anything) why he didn’t tell her where he was going.

Point is she is not looking where she is going. Which is how she ends up in one of those run smackdab into a solid, decisively manly, chest scenarios, with them steadying you from falling over and breaking a phone or an ankle and all that jazz.

And usually Emma wouldn’t give such a romcom cliché a second thought but then again she has been softening towards romcom clichés lately. Which of course comes part and parcel with the reason to not really care about such “meet cutes” – her having a boyfriend or whatever.

And as she looks up she knows few meets can top the cute of her own meet cute with a certain author slash self-proclaimed “dashing man of letters”. Except she looks up into the laughing blue eyes of said dashing man.

“You probably get this line all the time, lass, but I really feel like I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

She blinks. Once. Twice. Thrice.

Killian just stands there – smirk undiminishing, hand warm and firm on her bicep, eyes bluer than she remembers.

Taller than he remembers as well, Emma thinks as she lifts up on her toes and kisses him for all she is worth. There’s a sound of surprise somewhere in the back of his throat but his hand slips into her hair and he winds his left arm around her waist to draw her closer so she thinks he got the hint.

You know those things you remember but you don’t _really_ remember them that clearly but you know they were good so you just kinda keep building them up in your head until you remember them being much better than they could’ve possibly been? Yeah, kissing Killian Jones was not one of those things.

Kissing Killian Jones was just as good as she remembered. Perhaps even a bit better, seeing as she wasn’t freezing her ass off this time around.

There’s a throat clearing from somewhere in their general vicinity after what Emma thinks cannot have been more than a minute. And she really needs more than a minute to reacquaint herself with Killian’s lips _and_ make up for not feeling them for over two months.

But if he thinks the same (and the little displeased sigh against her mouth seems to indicate that he does), he has better control over himself because he actually manages to pull back and give her an almost embarrassed smile.

Which is ridiculous. She is the one who kissed him. And it was far from embarrassing in her subjective opinion. And he is her boyfriend so people could mind their business.

“Hey!”

Three pairs of eyes turn on her simultaneously and she takes in Henry and David standing just a few feet from them – one looking victorious as all hell and the other balancing the line between amused and willing to call them in for public indecency – and restrains herself from turning on Killian and yelling ‘I can finally call you my “boyfriend” without adding “or whatever”!’ in his face.

“Hi. I mean… hi.”

Good cover, Emma.

David gives her a smile that tops Killian’s embarrassment about a dozen times and waves.

“I’ll… ummm, see you inside? For the papers and stuff?”

Everyone else seems to know what is going on and Killian just gives David a firm nod while Henry beams with what looks like yet another check in his victory column.

“So… not that I mind. In the least. But… any particular reason you are here?”

Her. She wants the reason to be her. But she has officially gotten a hold on her inner monologue.

“Ah, yes. Hello, love.”

To his credit, Killian leans over and gives her a little peck in the corner of her mouth as if she didn’t just attack him with her mouth a few seconds ago and proceeds to steer her towards the pet shelter’s door that she was so convinced she could find without looking up from her phone with a hand on the small of her back as if they walked side by side all day every day.

It feels nice.

Feels more than nice if she is gonna be honest with herself here.

“I seem to have woken up convinced that I am in desperate need of a pet. Something about the unfriendly image that “a brooding author living with nothing but his books” projects.”

She glares at Henry and gives him a little shove to go into the store before them.

“And there are no pet stores in Storybrooke?”

“None, I’m afraid. Plus you hear so much about the quality and friendliness of pet shelters in New York.”

“Oh, I have no doubt _you_ do,” she adds with another pointed look at her son.

“And with good reason as well,” David finds it necessary to chip in.

Killian exits the pet shelter one 3-year-old cat heavier. Emma exits just a little bit more in love.

///

He has three days before he has to fly to LA. Has to go give his blessing to the actors being cast in the main roles in New Tales from the Old Forest Volume 1.

Emma still forgets (shockingly often) exactly how famous and successful and rich her boyfriend is. Which is why the very mention of the movie is enough to make her a bit anxious about what they can possibly do in 3 days that won’t be completely erased in minutes by the glamour of Hollywood.

For his part Killian seems mainly anxious about “not imposing on their hospitality”. Which is… once again – ridiculous. She tells him so.

They both seem a lot less anxious after that.

///

When Henry has been in bed for over two hours and Scrawny has been asleep ever since they made him a bed of more pillows than he has probably seen in his life, and between the two of them they have gone through 2 cups of tea and 2 ½ cups of hot cocoa, 3 episodes of Modern Family and almost a dozen childhood stories of varying degrees of playfulness or sadness, he watches Emma Swan try to hide a yawn into the shoulder that’s not pressed into his.

“Bedtime, Swan?”

“Mmmno,” she mumbles rebelliously. “You’re here.”

It tugs at his heart in ways and places he had forgotten existed and in a few that he maybe never knew to begin with. Her voice, her breath on the side of his neck, the little pop of her jaw as she yawns yet again, her soft words, the very sentiment behind them.

The fact that she doesn’t want to fall asleep because she doesn’t want to waste any of their time together.

“And I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“And the day after that and then the day after you’ll be off sunbathing in California.”

Conscious as he is of the boy sleeping down the hall, he can’t help the deep laugh that escapes him at her grumbling.

“I will be in my hotel room, clutching my laptop and ruining the moment I got on a plane that was bound to take me so far from you.”

He _feels_ her breath hitch and squeezes his eyes shut.

Bloody buggering fuck. Too much, Jones.

Still, he doesn’t expect her to pull away completely and get up, doesn’t know if he should ask for a pillow or offer to take himself to a hotel now that he has gone and buggered it up the way only he can.

“Bedtime, Jones?”

He opens his eyes and she is there, standing in front of him, one hand extended and an almost bashful smile on her lovely face.

It is probably not the best moment for him to realize exactly how many years in has been since he last took a woman to bed in any capacity. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on this or on exactly how presumptuous he wants to allow himself to be, _how presumptuous Emma might want him to be_.

From the moment he gathers the courage to place his hand in hers, he doesn’t need to do any gathering for much else. Everything with Emma is just so so easy. Shockingly, almost frighteningly, easy.

She shows him the way to her bedroom, shows him which side she sleeps on, shows him how to take his bloody shirt off when she is already in her PJs and he seems to have forgotten how to move, shows him how it feels to have someone touch parts of him – missing parts – in ways that make him forget what he lacks, make him so very aware of what he has.

She doesn’t have to show him how to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her and make them both unaware that there’s anything else to be done in life beside breathing against each other and touching lips, doesn’t have to show him how to nudge the fabric of her top off her shoulder, she doesn’t have to show him where she keeps the condoms because he feels like a night of learning the contours of her mouth is still not time enough.

She shows him how she wants to fall asleep – with his front pressed to her back and his nose in her shoulder and his stump around her waist. But she doesn’t have to show him how easy it is to drift off with her in his arms.

///

They get coffee from Granny’s. She actually, honest-to-God pinches Killian’s cheeks and mutters something about them not being in Storybrooke and her not Irishing up his coffee and he blushes something fierce, mutters about not doing that anymore and glances at Emma with a heartbreaking combination of embarrassment and fear and she just glues herself to his side and kisses his rose cheek and asks for another of whatever he is having.

And when she picks up their to-go cups, just because she has been thinking about it ever since she talked to Ruby and decided to do it only to never actually work up the courage to _ask_ , Emma lifts herself up over the counter and grabs one of Granny’s Sharpies.

She tries to think of something witty, then she tries to think of something sweet, then she realizes she is dealing with a freaking bestselling author and just draws a little swan.

Then she thinks ‘in for a penny, in for a pound’ and draws a couple of hearts around the poor bird’s head for good measure.

///

He doesn’t know why he is nervous.

Killian likes him. He is convinced that is the case. And he more than likes his mom. And he did plan a 3-day layover just to help him convince David to finally ask Ms Blanchard out (operation success: pending…)

And he seems to smile a lot. And laugh. And not just around his mom but around him as well. And generally seems to enjoy his company.

But then… Henry knows he must have books to write and movies to make now. Though Killian did point out that he’d actually have very little to do with the actual _making_ of the movie now that he’s handed in his reworked script.

Still. He is a busy guy. A famous guy. A guy who maybe doesn’t have kids because he doesn’t wanna deal with kids and having to go to their birthday parties and buy them presents. Not that he has to get him a present.

Henry makes sure to point that out as he transfers the invitation in his other hand for the sixth time since he took it out on the table. In the restaurant Killian took them to. The very nice restaurant. The colourful piece of paper stands out against the white tablecloth in a way that makes Henry even more nervous.

“And what self-respected guest is going to show up to a birthday party without a present for the guest of honour? A little more faith, lad?”

He looks up at Killian grinning at him like he invited him to Christmas in summer and not just to have cake in their apartment with a bunch of other kids and thinks, yup, Killian definitely likes him.

He decides that is the right moment to point out that Scrawny needs to stay with them while Killian comes back from LA as well.

His mom takes surprisingly little persuading. He thinks that might have something to do with the fact that Killian will have to stop by NY again to collect the cat. But what does he know, he is just a kid.

A kid who is gonna have all his favourite people on his birthday.

///

The second night she has him in her bed, she probably couldn’t have kept her hands to herself, even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t want in the least. And he doesn’t seem to either.

She wants her hands and her mouth on everything single sensitive, ticklish, scarred or flushed inch of him. And that’s exactly where she puts them.

///

As the stewardess brings him his coffee, he tells himself he is not sentimental enough to take out the cupholders tucked in the inner pocket of his satchel. But, in the interest of full disclosure, he really doesn’t need to. He can probably trace every single doodle in the air from sheer memory. This morning’s being by far his favourite.

It’s a little plane with books stacked right on top of it, struggling to take off and leaving little hearts behind it instead of fumes.

He hasn’t even landed yet and he can’t wait to leave LA.


End file.
